Chapter Three Claire
Chapter Three
Claire
If God meant man to fly, He would have given us more money.
—ANONYMOUS
Though our driver—whose name tag I just noticed actually reads Jimmy, which could be short for James—got puff-chested when defending me to Nathan, now that he’s seen the other flight attendant, I’m all but invisible.
In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he only kicked Nathan off so there wouldn’t be any competition for the blonde’s attention.
I watch through the window as my new pilot friend pulls up the hood of his waterproof jacket, then drags his luggage through the puddles. I’m warm and cozy on this shuttle, thanks to him. But he’s going to remember me as nothing but a hot mess.
A smile plays on my lips, and I turn back to face my future. Or more aptly, the big guy bragging to the other flight attendant about an upcoming bodybuilding competition as he drives out of one parking lot and into the next.
I don’t feel any jealousy toward her. She’s beautiful, but not in a stereotypical way.
Rather, beauty fits her. She wears it like a custom-designed gown that swishes into place the moment it’s pulled on.
Neither her thick golden hair flipping merrily at chin length nor the diamond sparkling from the crease of her nose would look the same on anyone else. It defies jealousy.
I glance past her attentive listening face to get a glimpse of my new home, and my smile melts the way the Wicked Witch of the West would in this Emerald City.
Yeah, the three-story structures are designed with old-world charm, but probably because they were built during the time of Tudor England and haven’t been updated since.
The gray clouds don’t help, stealing color and pasting litter to moldy sidewalks with their dreary rain.
Even the allure of a swimming pool is tarnished by the rusty chainlink fence surrounding it.
Raindrops dimple the pool’s surface, reminding me that it’s probably rarely used anyway.
No wonder Nathan bought a house.
All too soon, the shuttle jerks to a stop.
The other flight attendant stands with no hesitation. Doesn’t she mind living here?
I glance toward Jimmy, mentally pleading with him to announce she’s getting out at this stop, while I’m at the next. I’d told him where I was staying when he questioned me about Nathan.
He grunts. “Which building are you in?”
Oh, I hadn’t told him that. Hope swells. “Building F.”
The sexy flight attendant grabs her luggage, then tosses hair out of her face to grin at me.
“That’s my building too.” She surprises me with a bit of a Southern twang.
You don’t hear that much on the West Coast, but I suppose the world is smaller when you’re traveling. “Is Doug Crandall your landlord?”
I do a double take, and not only because of her accent. “Yes.”
Blast Doug and his photography skills that made this dump resemble a European bed and breakfast. Blast my new employer for basing me in Seattle rather than in my first choice of SFO. And blast my desire for free airline travel.
“Perfect.” The other flight attendant flashes her smile on high beam. “You’re my new roomie.”
This is as scary as the first time I moved in with sorority sisters. However, Cal-Berkeley had security guards. And soda machines. Where am I supposed to get a pop can for defending myself when I need one?
I peer out the window at a resident hunched over a laundry basket while wrestling with the lock on what I assume to be a laundry facility. A leaky gutter gives his clothes a prewash.
“Is it safe?”
She laughs, a light sound in this dark place. “There’s nothing to worry about. We have each other.”
I get the feeling that even if I weren’t here, she’d be just as chill.
Meanwhile, I’m replaying Nathan’s self-defense lesson.
Knee to groin, followed by a palm or elbow strike.
I’m not sure any of it will actually work.
I can’t even shadow box without causing the joint of my big toe to throb, so how would I defend myself in a real attack?
Laughing with the pilot had momentarily alleviated my fears, but now I’m tugging my suitcases off the shelves in an effort to stick as close as possible to my stunning new buddy.
It’s not until my big bag crashes to the floor that I remember my perfume bottle inside.
Should the glass container break, dousing all my garments in eau de toilette, I’ll be forced to wash a load of laundry immediately.
I take a deep breath, and it’s thankfully free from the sweet scent of cherry blossom, so I grab my smaller bag too.
The other flight attendant stops at the steps to slip Jimmy some cash before lowering her carry-on, and I remember what Nathan said about tipping. Shoot. Now either she’s going to leave me behind as I dig through my purse, or I’m going to make her wait in the rain.
“I got you, sis.” She waves for me to follow.
I blink. “You got my tip?” I don’t want to assume and get us banned from riding in the hotel shuttle ever again. Though with the way the driver is ogling my roommate, she doesn’t have much to worry about. She’ll be waving from the shuttle as they pass me walking down the hill.
“Yeah.” She reaches back in for my smaller bag. “You can get me next time.”
I clatter down the stairs after her. A fine mist slicks my skin with Washington’s version of rain. “Thanks.” And I am thankful.
Not only did this woman just cover my tip, but the pilot I’d met taught me how to catch this shuttle in the first place. And before that was my interaction with the nicest passenger ever. What was it she said about God looking out for her?
“I’m Angel.”
I blink in astonishment. Though my roommate is absolutely cherubic. And she flies.
“What’s your name?”
“Oh! I’m Claire.”
She strides toward the pathway that leads between buildings and surprisingly gorgeous green space.
At home, only the wealthy can afford gardens so lush, but based on the condition of these buildings, I doubt management pays that much for landscaping.
It’s just so wet here that rhododendrons, ferns, and ivy pretty much grow themselves.
Like the precipitation, Angel continues to sprinkle me with information. “Welcome to Seattle, Claire. I love it here. Of course, I arrived this summer, before the rainy season.”
“Huh.” I slide my gaze from side to side, judging our neighbors by their ashtrays and unwelcome mats. Thankfully, I don’t have to interact with them. Nine roommates are enough to worry about.
Perhaps I’m being overly cautious regarding my new digs. Everyone I’ve met has been kind, and it could be that constant sogginess is simply hard on buildings and makes them appear old and dingy before their time.
Angel stops at a grated metal staircase and pushes her suitcase handle down in order to lift it by the handle. I follow suit, expecting to make two trips. My big suitcase is going to be a struggle on its own.
“Here.” She reaches for my carry-on, then proceeds ahead of me.
With a bag in each hand, she’s not free to point out our surroundings, so she juts her dainty chin in reference to the locations on my private tour.
“The pool closed last month, so you missed that. But there’s a basketball court in the back corner, if you play. ”
I lug my suitcase up each step with a thunk. I think of myself as physically conditioned, but I don’t normally carry heavy items up the stairs. And I don’t play sports either. “Nah.” Though maybe Wyatt will want to shoot hoops when he visits.
“Me neither.” Angel passes the second level.
I pause to readjust my grip for the benefit of my aching knuckles. If our crash pad were on the second story, I could be calling Wyatt by now to tell him about the basketball court.
Angel disappears out of sight around the landing, but she continues her spiel. “Unfortunately, they had to padlock the workout room to keep the homeless from squatting, so I just lift weights at hotel gyms.”
Wait a minute. The gym is padlocked to keep out squatters? I knew it. This neighborhood is sketchy.
I take a deep breath, intending to calm my nerves, but end up sucking in enough skunky scent that I’m now worried about getting high from the neighbor’s secondhand marijuana smoke. Hopefully, it won’t affect any random drug tests done by Premier Air.
With that thought in mind, the workout room becomes a lesser concern. “It’s okay. I’m more into Pilates. Not that I’ve been exercising much lately.”
Angel’s face peeks around the bend in the staircase. “Because you already have a boyfriend?”
I arch my eyebrows at her assumption and make a couple of my own. First, she thinks the only reason to work out is to get a man. Second, if that’s her motivation and she’s still lifting weights at hotels, she must be single.
I haul my suitcase around the corner. “Pilates never had anything to do with dating.”
“They why don’t you exercise anymore?” She moves on to the third story.
I think back to my old life. The old me never would have imagined myself here. “It was part of my ballet training. I danced professionally.” Evidently I now climb stairs while lugging suitcases for exercise.
“That’s incredible.” Angel stops at the top, sets down our carry-ons, and extends their handles. “You’re not still dancing?”
I grimace, and not from the marijuana smoke. “I developed trigger toe.”
Angel’s brown eyes fill with concern, making me want to trust her. “What’s that?”
A dancer’s worst nightmare. “My big toe locks up when dancing en pointe.”
She scrunches her cute little face in pain. “Like a foot cramp?”
“Kind of.” I don’t want to get into it.
“Ouch. I’m sorry.”
She’s compassionate in a nonchalant way. My dancer friends had all been horrified when I’d told them. They’d known it would be career ending. Life changing. Similar to bankruptcy or divorce.